A-Class
by Maximen
Summary: Welcome to A-Class. Since 1972, all S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel striving to become field agents must pass the Field Exam; a one-hundred-day evaluation and training assignment, pass or fail ― and Cadet Coulson is no exception.
1. Fury

**Author's note:**  
This is the updated and revised Phil Coulson origin fic originally written by another author. They asked if I could take it on, and I happily obliged. Technically set in the same universe as _Snowhunter_, but can be read on its own.

* * *

**Chapter One**  
**_Fury_**

It's three days into the 4th Quarter of his final year in Communications Academy when Coulson comes face to face Agent Fury for the second time.

Three days into their final months and three days into Final Break, the fourteen-day vacation all S.H.I.E.L.D. Cadets received in order to recover from their Determinacy Evaluation Test and to prepare for the final slog of miscellaneous academics, the sort that came with ironing out future prospects and careers. For the last two years, after his Preliminary E.T and Intermediary E.T respectively, Phil Coulson had spent this vacation block at home with his mother. It was the only vacation time they got close to the winter holidays. According to S.H.I.E.L.D., such predetermined and stringent vacation periods were to prepare them for the realities of service.

But this year, Coulson was feeling less inclined to board a plane back to Wisconsin. He'd thought about it, written and phoned his mother regarding it, but had eventually elected to stay, citing work.

He's not the only one. While a lot of cadets left the Academy to visit family and friends, there were still plenty of students wandering around the halls, singular shapes or close crowds of two-and-threes clustered around the cafeterias and studying silently in the IRCs. The whole panicky atmosphere from before the D.E.T. was gone, replaced with a lethargic indifference. Coulson had been quick to learn: not everyone liked the holiday seasons, and not everyone had families or friends to visit, or wanted to if they did. The nature of S.H.I.E.L.D. often meant that this percentage was higher than average.

It meant that Coulson, free from his compulsory lessons unless his Training SO decided he needed correcting in some fashion or other, (Coulson suspects he might have performed well enough on the physical portion of his D.E.T., for he noticed a distinct and relieving lack of PT on his rota) was left to his own devices. There were still rules, of course. Communications wasn't Operations but it also wasn't SciTech; cadets were still expected to behave to the basic standard, but his schedule was also the lightest it had been in over five years. For the first time, he could do what he wanted to do, for more than an hour.

He had found himself spending most of this novel free time in the library. He'd tried sitting around doing nothing, sleeping or lounging around, but had found it quickly boring. Nobody played baseball in the winter and after getting pelted one too many times in the crotch and face, Phil didn't like soccer.

Instead, he found himself going over a random set of voluntary courses, the sort that ran all year and repeated for extra-curricular advancement. There was a winter course in public relations that he... really did not want to do but, he supposed, would be prudent to try.

Cadet Faulkner came wandering over just as Coulson had finished reading the required modules. He was a stingy redhead a few months younger than Coulson and in the same bloc for Math and Historical Studies, Western European subjects specifically.

"Do you still have any notes on the American Revolution?" He asked, looking strained. "Harris has updated my academics rota and I think I might have slogged the D.E.T. commentary on Howe's War, given by how many fresher courses I've suddenly got."

Coulson winced and tried not to say '_I told you so_'. "Your S.O. put you on a fresher course?"

"Two hours every Monday, Wednesday, Friday for the next four weeks with the preliminary year babies," Faulkner sighed. "You don't have to say it."

"I'm pretty sure we went over this," Coulson shook his head, which was the closest thing to saying 'I told you so' without being discourteous. "Notes can't cut it, you actually need to learn how the downward spiral during the war affects the modern American military viewpoint and how that, in turn, affects S.H.I.E.L.D. It's not just the facts, or we'd all pass."

"Oh come on, Christ. Don't get me started," Faulkner grumbled. "I'm not even American. Between the crap that was on the Eastern Asian section and the NATO essay, I think my brain might just explode. I didn't even try the South American one. The heck do I know about Chile? They could at least asked me about Argentina. That's more of a local interest."

"I don't think S.H.I.E.L.D. had a lot to do with the Falklands War, Bill."

"Hey, don't underestimate the serious nature of British-Argentinan relations, Cadet. That might come to bite you in the arse one day when you, oh I don't know..." He waved a hand dramatically. "Have to work with Agents from both countries at the same time, maybe? I'm not sure what you're going into."

_Neither am I_, Coulson thinks. Instead of saying that though, he snorts in indulgement amusement. "I'll keep the riveting details of the international relations between the UK and Argentina in mind, Faulkner. I've got some old stuff in my room on Howe. I'll hand it over tonight."

"Thanks, Phil. I owe you one."

"More like six," Coulson notes blandly. Then he notices Faulkner glancing up and the developing furrow between his eyebrows. "What?"

"Did you know you have a shadow?" Faulkner asks, but then hisses. "Don't turn around, you moron. That's like the first lesson they tried to teach us in that bloody espionage program. What kind of spy are you?"

"I'm not a spy yet," Coulson shakes his head. "What shadow?"

"There's some guy looking at you. There's no way in hell that book on environmental logistics is that interesting. That and he's angled in your direction."

Coulson felt himself tense. He was not unused to surveillance ― there were cameras on every corner and every single move he made was recorded when on-site in the Academy unless he really wanted to be left alone ― but getting singled out was never usually a good thing. Occasionally throughout the year Cadets got approached and they almost always left early, for reasons nobody was ever told. Rumour had some of them got transferred to other areas of S.H.I.E.L.D., but Coulson thinks it has more to do with cadets breaking regulation more than anything else.

Which, Coulson has never done. His record is spotless. He doesn't even have a uniform penalty. Maybe Faulkner was looking too much into it and the agent was just interested in his textbook on logistics.

But still. Now Faulkner had mentioned it, he can't help but wonder. Maybe.

"I'm, uh. I'm gonna go... study my history," Faulkner was too good of a Cadet by this point to glance back at the mysterious observer, but Coulson could tell he wanted too. "Cheers for the notes, Phillyboy. I'll make it up to you by going easy on you in math."

"If we ever have a math class again," Coulson replies. "No problem."

His watcher doesn't approach straight away. Coulson doesn't look behind him, but he couldn't he make himself move to grab his textbooks or papers while being potentially scrutinised without feeling awkward. Instead, he re-read the modules for the PR course, not taking them in and instead focused his entire effort on listening for footsteps.

Of course, it isn't easy; the floor is carpet and it appears his observer is good at his job. Coulson sits there until his line of sight is blocked by a black man in his mid-30s dropping into the chair opposite. He hadn't heard a thing.

He doesn't realise it's Fury until the man speaks. Three years and then some had turned Agent Fury from a disguised hippie college professor into a clean-cut S.H.I.E.L.D. agent which, Coulson supposes, made a lot of sense. He had a tie with little red diamonds in a diagonal pattern but everything else was rather standard. Black suit and white shirt, same as Coulson ― though a Communications cadet had the singular option of blue for tie choices, as per uniform regulation.

"Busy working, Cadet?" Fury asked, fake-nonchalant as he leaned into a more comfortable position in his chair, casting a casual glance around the room before fixing Coulson with a long, set stare. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you were expecting me."

Coulson glanced over the man's shoulder and decided to take a gamble. "Saw your reflection in the window, sir."

Fury raised his eyebrows. If he bought it or not, Coulson couldn't tell. "You don't say. Well, how about that. And here I thought your D.E.T. exam had you pegged for civilian liaison work."

Coulson has learned over the course of three years to take anything not specifically taught by an instructor (can't have future cadets dying or getting injured in the field because of deceptive training, after all) with a grain of salt. S.H.I.E.L.D. was an organization that valued it's mission first, it's secrets second and it's personnel at a far, far third. Cadets were often fed harmless half-lies and were, while not punished for calling bullshit, strongly censured for proving the contrary. It was the nature of the work and designed to weed out agents who had trouble lying, either by accident or because of their moral sensitivities, early on.

If they couldn't keep mundane secrets from each other and civilians, what was to later stop them from telling the media, or an unsuspecting civilian who then might talk to someone with ulterior motives?

Coulson was less good at it. He'd rarely been lied to as a child and not so much as a young adult; his general method of operation was to take people at face value until the Academy started throwing wrenches around and generally tripping him up, and even though he'd started to play the same game, he didn't like it. While Coulson has the suspicion that Fury is misleading him on the whole civilian liaison gig, he doesn't know if it's because of his experience with his Instructors fifty-fifty chance of deception or just because he doesn't want it to be true. Because really. _Civilian liaison_ _work_?

He tried not to make a face, but Fury must have noticed his disapproval anyway for he shrugged. "Nothing wrong with working with the regular folk to keep S.H.I.E.L.D's operations safe and secret, Cadet."

"Of course not, sir." Coulson lied.

"But judging by your..." Fury threw his arm out over the desk and pressed his index finger down on the corner of one of Coulson's papers, then slid it out towards him. It was the paper Coulson had been given by this SO that morning; the fifth or sixth "replacement" Occupational Option Preference List that, was, currently, completely void of anything. He had at least four others on his desk back in his room.

It's not that he kept on loosing them, despite what his SO thought. He just... _Well_.

Fury frowned at it, then tilted his head. "... Er, lack of options, that might be where you're headed if you don't make up your mind."

Coulson knew that.

"I... know that, sir." He replied as diplomatically as possible.

Coulson knows that in eleven days, he will be expected to throw himself head and heart first into finding some area of S.H.I.E.L.D. to join. He'd heard it from his SO and he'd heard it from his instructors, he'd even heard it from his fellow Cadets. Not all areas were accessible to him, naturally: he'd never be a specialist and he'd never be a scientist, the P.E.T and the I.E.T. of two years before had been slowly narrowing his prospects as he grew, learned and matured, but communications was the largest area of S.H.I.E.L.D. as an intelligence organization, and therefore it's range was still incredibly comprehensive.

The running joke was that Communications was the easiest to get into and therefore subpar compared to the other two Academies, but what they failed to realise was S.H.I.E.L.D. was a massive international system. Its bar was lower because it encompassed such a large spectrum of areas that any stringent entry requirements would make recruitment nearly impossible, especially how it trained more cadets than the Operations and SciTech combined. Not that Communications was _easy_. Coulson might not be the top 1% of the world in intelligence or have six black-belts, but it wasn't Operations who churned out the majority of field agents, it was Communications. It wasn't SciTech who developed the comprehensive computer systems required to run investigations, it was Communications. 88% of military intelligence officers within the Infantry Division were from the Communications Academy.

It was the S.H.I.E.L.D. standard and the S.H.I.E.L.D. standard was supposed to be world-rate. Coulson, at the end of his third year, was trained enough to make him a minor expert in a number of different fields. Not a master, no, but he wasn't a bumbling idiot in a suit like their sibling-Academies made them out to be. None of them really were. The odd crisis might be averted by the specialists or the geniuses, but the long-term problems Earth faced, the long battles, they were won by it's rank-and-file.

The problem was, Coulson could find himself feasibly almost anywhere. He could end up in intelligence, either the espionage section or the tactical military intelligence section, he could end up in logistics, he could end up in the human services department, the education department, the communications department. The list of possible roles just went on and on to the point of overwhelming. He had no idea, quite simply, what to pick.

And if Coulson couldn't decide for himself, then someone else would for him. The general consensus was that the latter was the least favourable outcome and at first, Coulson was sceptical, but now having heard the words _civilian liaison_, he was somewhat more convinced.

"You wouldn't be the first to say so, sir."

"So what's stopping you?" Fury leaned back and laced the fingers of both hands against his lap. "When I recruited you three years ago, you were eager. Ready to make a difference. What changed?"

Coulson wasn't sure if anything had changed, per se. He was still wanting to make a difference, still intensely interested in S.H.I.E.L.D. and wanting to do this part, it's just the method. It didn't help, he supposed, that he had no idea what he'd actually _do_ in S.H.I.E.L.D. back then. His main concern had been the Academy. He glanced away, despite the constant hammering of 'look at your superior when spoken to' (or, half an inch behind them, Coulson hated eye contact and found it deeply difficult) in the back of his mind. Truth is, he's not sure.

"I'm not sure, sir." He says. Sometimes it's best to be direct and honest. "Probably just... overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed." Fury inhaled deeply and then shrugged again. "Guess it makes sense. S.H.I.E.L.D. grows bigger and more complex with every passing day, but why not something simple, Coulson?"

Coulson shrugged back, meek and put out at being singled out and directly approached. Had his SO put Fury to this, frustrated with Coulson's progress? "Like what, sir?"

Fury leaned forward. "To tell you the truth, Cadet, I ain't a big believer in standardized testing. Now all these big-brained men and woman in labcoats tell me that it's the best way to figure out a person's true potential, but back in my day, we just observed 'em and put 'em to the test to be ninety-nine per cent sure. All this brain science voodoo in the form of exams? It looks good, I suppose, but what if it isn't completely right. What it if underestimates people?"

"Sir?"

"Here's the deal, Coulson. Your D.E.T, factoring in the previous P and I.E.T, strongly suggest that I'm looking at someone slated for the support areas of S.H.I.E.L.D. and maybe it's not entirely wrong ― you tutor in your spare time, you lack the overly-aggressive drive temperament for operational combat... But, despite what the folks over in Operations will tell you, you ain't gotta be a soldier to be a good field agent."

Coulson drew a complete blank.

"_Yes_," Fury continued, high-pitched and condescending like he was talking to a three-year-old he found perhaps particularly dull-witted. "I mean you, Cadet Coulson. _I'm_ here to tell _you..._ that I would like _you..._ to consider accepting _my_ proposal... for _me_ to take _you_ on as _your_ SO... and for _me_ to train... _you_ as a field agent."

"You want me as a field agent," Coulson replied, dumbfounded. He's so knocked out of sync that he didn't even rise to the bait.

Fury blinked. "I do."

At first, Coulson wants to laugh, but the more he thought about it from a completely subjective standpoint, the more he realised it did make sense.

Coulson scored admirably on the espionage program; it wasn't anything extreme, but anything he had struggled with, he had learned could practice by either asking the older cadets for pointers or, once he hit year three and had greater access to the outside world, by bribing S.H.I.E.L.D. Infantry guards with cigarettes and alcohol to show him the tricks that people never thought to teach. He doesn't know the specific score but he knows he must have come out top of his year, because there was an Advanced Tactics course on his rota. His fitness was decent. Coulson could spar, he supposed ― he never came first but he also never usually hit the bottom of the pile when it came to combat, either. He had standard training sessions. Nothing good, nothing bad.

So he is qualified, but... Coulson was _normal_. He looked _normal_ and acted _normal_. He didn't have a great terrible past to overcome with vengeance, he wasn't insanely skilled or immensely talented. He was ranked perpetually within the middle of everything he did. Nobody flinched in fear when they saw him or did anything of note. He was just, well, Phil Coulson. Good at history and operational tactics. The guy who collected Captain America cards. Bit of a dork, apparently.

And here was Fury, the man they call the _Spymaster_, who was according to rumour was gonna end up as Director one day, offering to make him a field agent. To train him and tutor him, become his SO. It didn't seem right, somehow.

Fury had picked Coulson out back at college, sure. He was a kid back then; just some history nerd from Manitowoc, there had to have been a reason why.

But Coulson also knows that if he asks why, which was his first instinct, he'd never get a straightforward answer. Or at least one he was satisfied with. Knowing Fury's reputation, he'd probably get something overly-complicated or confusing. A lot of the instructors were like that.

Instead of asking, Coulson looks down at the empty preference list sheet and sets his jaw. _One step at a time_, he hears Agent Duncan, the man responsible for instructing Agents in problem-solving and operational situation management and probably one of the most straight-forward men he knew, say in the back of his mind. _Think your next action through_.

"Can I have some time to think about it?" He asks, though he knows he's on leave and technically has eleven days at his disposal regardless of Fury's response.

Agent Fury stands and leans over the table so he might push the paper aside, then towards Coulson in two sharp movements. His hand lingers there for a moment, spiderlike, all fingers extended. He's got two calluses from where he holds his handgun.

"You have ten days," the man says, then he turns around to look at the window before returning back at Coulson. Then he points at the cadet, the tip of his finger very nearly touching the bridge of his nose between his eyes. "And fucking 'saw your reflection' my ass. You keep on learning to lie, Coulson, and one day, _one day_, you might actually deceive me for real."

* * *

**[A-CLASS]**


	2. Bus

**Chapter Two**  
_**Bus.**_

After Fury leaves, Phillip Coulson does three things. First, he goes to his room and finds his old notes and slides them under Faulkner's door. Second, he eats dinner with Cadets Howard and Malmstad ― the latter trades her desert for Coulson's extra serving of fries and all three of them discuss American football and great length before going their own respective ways. Thirdly, Coulson drops by his SO's office and requests to see his list of official occupational proposals.

"Well, it's about time you asked," Agent McRickerd replied. He was a balding middle-aged man in his late fifties and had got around forty cadets like Coulson through Communications Academy in the last twenty or so years. He leaned over to open up a metal filing cabinet marked _Coulson, P._ and pulled out a thin folder, which he then tossed over the desk. "Give that a look, but don't walk out with it. It has to stay in here."

Coulson flipped it open and ignored most of the top writing, skimming over it once to find that it was mostly instructional information about how the following wasn't officially binding until formal paperwork was made. It was the stuff written in bold typeface he needed, listed from one to four.

* * *

**RECOMMENDED**** S.H.I.E.L.D. OCCUPATIONAL ROLE  
****FOR: _COULSON, PHILLIP J. #SKJ-08U7342, S.H.I.E.L.D. COMMUNICATIONS ACADEMY_**

1.** Communications Department, _Mission Controller_. **

2.** Operational Department, _Crisis Negotiation Officer_.**

3.** S.H.I.E.L.D. Infantry Division, _Military Intelligence __and Reconnaissance Officer_.**

4\. **Public Relations Department, _Public and Civilian Liaison Agent._**

* * *

Sure enough, Fury had not been lying when he had told Coulson that the testing and years of general observation had slated him for a Liason agent, but it wasn't the whole truth either, was it? It was the last of potential options.

Which made him feel a lot better about the whole thing, but now he did have another conundrum on his hands.

"Do I have to take one of these options, sir?" Coulson asked McRickerd. The man had been silent as Coulson had read, respectful of Coulson's need to concentrate and was now leaning back on his chair, pressing his pen between his index and thumb fingers.

The man shook his head. "No, you don't, but they're on there for a reason." He began explaining. "I know a lot of people don't put much faith in testing - they change nearly every goddamn year, I don't blame them for thinking it - but they do provide a good rough area. Between that and the training team's insight, they really are supposed to be the best options for you and S.H.I.E.L.D."

He paused then, and gave Coulson that knowing look where he knew the answer but was asking anyway.

"Why, you have any ideas of your own?"

Coulson looked down at the paper again. He wouldn't mind some of the options. Mission Control was supposed to be about as stressful as actually being in the field but without the benefits; crisis negotiation was a whole other ballgame of pressure. He's not entirely sure about the Infantry Division ― like Fury had said, Coulson was not a soldier, and even as a M.I.R Officer, he'd be _Infantry_ and not _Intelligence_.

He could see himself, certainly, in the first two options. Yet there was that niggling little thing in the back of his head, that actuality.

Fury outright asked him to become his junior agent. He'd _chosen_ Coulson.

"What if I wanted to become a field agent?" Coulson asked and watched McRickerd's face for any clues as to if this was as worse of an idea as he felt it was.

McRickerd just looked confused. "I'd say you were well within your rights to try for it, Cadet." He began, slowly. "Though it's not as simple as just putting your name in on paperwork - field agents need dedicated full-time SOs, and that means having an SO come forward for you. You've gotta get picked, you understand? Selected."

Coulson looked back at him and did not reply outright. For a moment, McRickerd didn't say anything back in reply, but once Coulson's silenced stretched on from the point of 'thinking it over' to 'I'm not telling you something', both of his eyebrows raised up in surprise.

"Someone came forward." It wasn't a question and the man exhaled loudly. "Well, it would have been nice of them to inform me about it."

"I'm sorry, sir. I should've-"

"No, no," McRickerd slipped his pen into his free hand, set it aside and leaned up in his chair. "No real harm done, I suppose. Who asked for you?"

"Agent Fury."

McRickerd paused and looked up at him in surprise, but then shook his head as if it was all one big parade of nonsense after another. "Well, that makes sense. Man can't go about protocol normally, can he? All cloak and dagger and secret bloody meetings."

Coulson nodded, recognising that his SO was going on a tangent. "Sir."

The man shook his head again and pressed both hands flat against the desktop. "Right. So you've been given an offer?" Coulson nodded again, so he continued. "Usually, when a Cadet gets an offer, we give it several days, y'know, to make sure you know it's what you want. Take 'em to look up your other options. Meet up with the folks from each of the other departments - I'll give you the info to schedule a meeting with the interchange officer from the D.I., for formalities sake. It looks good if a cadet goes over all of their options, especially for the Infantry. You'll want to talk to Captain Kemppainen anyway in regards to the Field Exam."

"The what?" Coulson blanked, and McRickerd blinked as if Coulson had just stood up and shouted a slur at him in another language.

"Oh _of course_," His SO griped. "I guess since I never got a concrete offer it must have just slipped my mind. I apologise for that." He sighed and regarded Coulson with a careful look. "The Field Exam is a one-hundred-day pass-or-fail training exercise that aims to get cadets from Communications and SciTech up to speed in what we call Agent B.T., or Basic Training."

"I thought that's what Operations was for?" Coulson frowned and McRickerd shook his head.

"Operations hasn't completely finished training for Field Agents ever since our work moved away from classic spying procedures. More than ever we need Agents capable of handling complex tech and approaching modern-day solutions; it's not about punching out the bad guy or spy-acrobating your way into restricted areas anymore and when it is, well, that's what specialists are for. You still get about a half dozen Operations Academy cadets joining the course as they transfer to field agents, too, but it's usually less about training them and more about ensuring that they can work properly in a team, brushing up on any missed information."

"That makes sense, I guess." Coulson brushed his thumbs against the paper in his hands in thought. "But why do I have to talk to Captain Kemp?"

McRickerd smirked. "The Field Exam takes place at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Institute of Military Academics." He explained. "Since they are experienced in the contents of the course already, it's not hard to keep a retainer of full-time instructors. It takes Operations three years to make a specialist - our own espionage program takes up a good portion of your study over the course of the same amount of time, but the Infantry division? They can take a cadet and turn them into a fully trained trooper in less than thirteen weeks, complete with tactical and survival training. They won't train you to be a soldier, mind, but there's something about training you _like_ one that gets results fast."

Coulson grimaced. "One hundred days getting drilled by troopers doesn't sound exactly spy-like."

"It's not about the spying, per se. You've been taught most of what you need to know - anything they deem relevant and out of their area, we've got our own people to teach you, mostly the little things. Being able to work in a team of up to five other agents in a mission; how to handle complex emergency scenarios when there are civilians involved. How to get out of a fight without putting your other fellow agents at risk, or imperilling your objective. That, and it gives you a bit of a reality check." McRickerd actually laughed. "S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't all sitting pretty in Paris wearing designer suits and sipping martinis while you watch a crook from afar. One day, sport, you're gonna end up crawling on your stomach in a sewer duct, getting fired at from all angles because _something_ went wrong."

Phil Coulson imagined himself doing that and much to his surprise, while he found it revolting, he didn't find it outright unspeakable, either.

"You said it was pass or fail? I'm guessing it's difficult."

McRickerd shook his head. "Not that hard. It will be hard for you, but not out of your range of abilities - in fact, a lot of Operations cadets fail and have to retake the course because they are over-qualified and make stupid mistakes. They want grounded agents, not overconfident bravado. Comms. and SciTech tends to do a lot better overall. I'm highly confident you'll pass."

Coulson looked down at his papers again and bit his lip.

Then, surprising himself, he looked back up at McRickerd and demanded. "Do I have to wait, or can I accept now?"

* * *

Cadet Coulson, or rather now, _Junior-Probationary Agent_ Coulson has a day and a half to say goodbye.

He's surprised by how quickly it all takes, but according to Agent Fury ― who, the second Coulson accepted his offer, became his grown-up full-time probationary SO ― S.H.I.E.L.D. was never one for slow paperwork or beating around the bush. The Field Exam was spread across three groups of twenty cadets and, if all went to plan, would increase to six sets by 1990. It meant that S.H.I.E.L.D could churn out field agents three times a year. It was a machine that never stopped, nor waiting. Fury had been adamant; there was no point in dallying around and while it wasn't protocol, nobody would really make much of a fuss about a cadet leaving three months early. Not in their final year, and not when they had someone like Agent Fury for an SO.

"Who knows," Fury says as he examines the old repurposed school bus sat parked on the other end of the Academy parking-lot. "Maybe Director Keller will pay out for our own training ground so our agents don't get trained by jarheads."

Coulson frowned at the language but elected to say nothing about it. It's early and his mind is buzzing with both excitement and dread. He knew that Fury had a low opinion of the Infantry Division: he'd been an army man, where the D.I. was largely headed by former marines and navy personnel, and years of working with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the CIA had left him indifferent to what they all called, _the Uniforms_. Coulson wondered, however, if there was something else. The armoured trooper waiting to herd over the cadets away from their SO's onto the bus had given Fury a rather critical look when the man's back was turned.

But that was another thing Coulson was afraid to ask. Instead, he'd blasted Fury with a series of other questions, mostly about the field exam and what came after.

Fury, to his credit, answered them all. Coulson would go through the one hundred days and then be ready to be sworn in and take his oath officially. From there, he'd continue to be a junior agent for a full year and help Fury with his own missions until he was ready to take one of his own. After that, Fury would transition from being his primary SO to one of many potential handlers. It was rare that a single agent had one specific handler, but not always unheard of. It depended on the agents involved.

"You'll do _fine_, Coulson." Fury had stared him down in the end, actually gripping Coulson's shoulder and surprising the younger agent with the physical contact. "It's a hundred days of basics."

He knows that, but after three years of staying in the same room in the same series of buildings, suddenly rooting up the very basics of his meagre existence (Coulson did not have time to pack up his stuff ― Fury would have to get someone to get his things and return them to his mother until Coulson was issued full-time accommodation) and boarding a bus to god-knows-where seemed... too much, almost. He wasn't regretting his decision, yet, but it was still bewildering and unexpected.

It helps that his friends are there. Cadet Faulkner, who hadn't decided on what he had wanted to do yet and wasn't leaving the Academy three months early like Coulson, dropped by to say farewell with Howard and Malmstad.

"I want a postcard from every place you visit when you're a full-time agent," he told Coulson with a laugh. "Knock 'em dead, Phillyboy. Especially the Operations brats."

Malmstad shook his hand. She would be going in after Coulson, in January, and wished him good luck.

Howard slapped him on the back and informed Coulson that he'd make a damn good agent, assuming he remembered how to reload a handgun. They all laughed at his joke.

Then it's nearly seven am on the dot and the other cadets are looking ready to leave. Coulson turns back to Fury and frowns. "You said you chose me."

"I did." Fury says, but his face is unreadable and he's not looking at Coulson directly. When Coulson doesn't back off, though, he glances back. "Don't let me down, rookie."

It's not what he really wanted, but he supposes, Coulson is an adult now. He didn't need to be coddled and told why he was here, though some private part of him really did want to know why, if for reassurance above anything else, and twisted in upset at getting brushed aside so harshly.

But that was the nature of S.H.I.E.L.D., and Coulson was not Fury's actual junior agent until he passed the Field Exam; this was merely a formality. Coulson inhaled, taking in the cold air and the smell of damp decaying plant life, of rainwater and bus exhaust, and tried to calm himself down. He'd be _fine_. Three years of Communications Academy should be more than enough to prepare him for this.

"See you in a hundred days." Coulson looked back at his not-yet-really-SO as he picked up his bag and tried to sound confident.

Agent Fury nodded. "I'll have your stuff set up ready for you."

And there, _there_ it is. Fury didn't allude to anything specific, but that simple promise spoke volumes. His unspoken confidence gave Coulson the slight boost he needed, and the Junior-Probationary Agent found himself making the entire walk over to the bus without looking back once.

He was told to stow away his bag in the luggage compartment, but if he wanted anything to read to pass the time, to grab it from his things now, because the wait until they stopped again would be several long hours from now. Coulson took the thick book of multi-novels he'd borrowed for precisely this reason from the front pocket of his backpack and did just that. A sullen-looking young man with a butchered haircut and form-fitting military-esque fatigues asked him his name once he reached the doors.

Coulson obliged.

"Junior Agent Coulson," the man-boy recited as he went down the list with the tip of his pen. "Coulson, Coulson. Ah. Row 10, Seat 4. Take a bottle of water at the front of the bus when you board, sit down and buckle yourself in. Try not to drink the whole bottle straight away; it's a long drive to Fort Sebastian and we'll only be stopping twice. No smoking on the bus, no getting up out of your seat without good reason. Got it?"

Coulson nodded. "Got it."

"Welcome aboard," the trooper remarked sarcastically. "Enjoy your trip."

There were ten cadets from Communications Academy joining him. Coulson recognised at least six of them and knew three enough by name. Marko Skok was a dark-eyed, twitchy lad a year younger than Coulson and in his Intermediary year. According to Sophie Pfeifer, who was sat in the aisle beside Coulson's, he wasn't actually going to I.M.A. to become a field agent but had rather transferred into the Infantry Division as a recruit. The rest of them, barring two others who were also told to sit at the front of the bus and not the back, were all still intelligence division. Johannes Rainer was the third person he recognised, and Coulson was not surprised to see that Rainer had already been picked up by an SO. He'd been at the top of the year group since they all started three years ago.

Captain Kemppainen was the last one to board. He was a wideset man in his early forties and, according to the discussion he'd had with the driver which Coulson had overheard, was on rotation back to _the Fort_ where he'd then be stationed in Europe-somewhere.

"After I get these little shits there nice and safe like," he'd laughed and then walked down the aisle, counting all ten no-longer-cadets. "Right," he shouted once he was satisfied he had them all. "Let's move out!"

As he passed by, he slapped Coulson on the chest lightly. Phil wasn't sure if it was a gesture or an accident, and so didn't look up, but he did turn around to look out the window back at where he left Fury.

The man was still there, a long shadow against the morning sun. When he saw Coulson look back, he stuck a hand up in farewell. Coulson went to raise his hand over the windowsill to mirror the gesture, but was immediately surprised to see the forlorn-looking trooper appear below him. The man jumped up to grab a handhold welded onto the side of the bus, and before Coulson could look back at Fury, he pulled down a set of heavy metal shutters over the window, then the one directly in front.

Soon, all of the windows were blocked and the shutters locked into place. When the engine spluttered and exploded to life, lights flickered on overhead to save them from the sudden unexpected darkness.

"Sir?" One of the cadets Coulson did not know the name of called out in confusion, and Captain Kemppainen stood up from where he was sat.

"That'll be Captain, to you, now." He shouted back. "The location you are heading to his classified. Don't worry, it's not _that long_ of a drive."

As the bus lurched forward, Coulson instinctively looked to the window, but saw nothing but opaque near-blackness. He hunched down in his seat and hoped Kemppainnen wasn't joking.


End file.
